Mortal Causes by Ian Rankin

Author:Ian Rankin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Published: 2011-10-18T13:57:14+00:00

17

Every chain, no matter how strong, has one link weaker than the rest. Rebus had hopes of Jamesie MacMurray, as he walked out of the Merchant’s. He was halfway to his car when he saw Caro Rattray walking towards him.

‘You were going to call me,’ she said.

‘Work’s been a bit hectic.’

She looked back at the pub. ‘Call that work, do you?’

He smiled. ‘Do you live here?’

‘On the Canongate. I’ve just been walking my dog.’

‘Your dog?’

There was no sign of a leash, never mind the animal. She shrugged.

‘I don’t actually like dogs, I just like the idea of walking them. So I have an imaginary dog.’

‘What’s he called?’

‘Sandy.’

Rebus looked down at her feet. ‘Good boy, Sandy.’

‘Actually, Sandy’s a girl.’

‘Hard to tell at this distance.’

‘And I don’t talk to her.’

She smiled. ‘I’m not mad, you know.’

‘Right, you just go walking with a pretend dog. So what are you and Sandy doing now?’

‘Going home and having a drink. Fancy joining us?’

Rebus thought about it. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Drive or walk?’

‘Let’s walk,’ said Caroline Rattray. ‘I don’t want Sandy shedding on your seats.’

She lived in a nicely furnished flat, tidy but not obsessive. There was a grandfather clock in the hall, a family heirloom. Her surname was engraved on the brass face.

A dividing wall had been taken away so that the living room had windows to front and back A book lay open on the sofa, next to a half-finished box of shortbread. Solitary pleasures, thought Rebus.

‘You’re not married?’ e said.

‘God, no.’

‘Boyfriend?’

She smiled again. ‘Funny word that, isn’t it? Especially when you get to my age. I mean, a boyfriend should be in his teens or twenties.’

‘Gentleman friend then,’ he persisted.

‘Doesn’t have the same connotations though, does it?’

Rebus sighed.

‘I know, I know,’ she said, ‘never argue with an advocate.’

Rebus looked out of the back window onto a drying green. Overhead, the few clouds were basking in the space they had. ‘Sandy’s digging up your flower bed.’

‘What do you want to drink?’

‘Tea, please.’

‘Sure? I’ve only got decaf.’

‘That’s perfect.’

He meant it. While she made noises in the kitchen, he walked through the living room. Diningtable and chairs and wall units at the back, sofa, chairs, bookcases towards the front. It was a nice room. From the small front window, he looked down onto slow-walking tourists and a shop selling tartan teddy-bears.

“This is a nice part of town,’ he said, not really meaning it. .

‘Are you kidding? Ever tried parking round here in the summer?’

‘I never try parking anywhere in the summer.’

He moved away from the window. A flute and some sheet music sat on a spindly music-stand in one corner. On a unit were small framed photos of the usual gap-toothed kids and kind-looking old people.

‘Family,’ she said, coming back into the room. She lit a cigarette, took two deep puffs on it, then stubbed it into an ashtray, exhaling and wafting the smoke away with her hand. ‘I hate smoking indoors,’ she explained.

‘Then why do it?’

‘I smoke when I’m nervous.’

She smiled slyly and returned to the kitchen, Rebus following.

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